Creative Differences
by enakoritsi
Summary: He was afraid of being a toy for Sasori. Sometimes, Sasori's eyes would seem to glitter during one of their discussions, as if he were laughing at some private joke. Like he knew what he was going to say. As if he had decided it.


_Disclaimer_ – I do not own Naruto or any of it characters.

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.:. Creative Differences .:.

Art (n). – Human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature

Art (n). – The conscious production or arrangement of sounds, colors, forms, movements, or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty, specifically the production of the beautiful in a graphic or plastic medium

Art (n). – The creation of beautiful and significant things

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Sasori hated Deidara.

Deidara wanted to hate Sasori.

Sasori believed in eternity, in the beauty of everlasting things, never-ending art. He was convinced that only that which never faded or rotted away had any worth, and there was nothing in this universe to convince him otherwise.

Deidara knew he was wrong.

Deidara believed in a moment, in the beauty of things that only lasted for a second before disappearing forever. He was convinced that only that which graced the world once, and only once without the ability of being repeated, had any worth, and nothing in the world could sway his opinion.

Both had their way to express their views, either with grotesque, lifeless puppets or stunning, breathtaking explosions. As partners, they moved in sync perfectly like clockwork, but always wearing each other down to a dangerous point.

Sasori thought he was invincible, undefeatable. He had ripped away a piece of the fabric of time and locked himself in it, creating a wooden body that would protect him forever and incase him in his art. Akasuna no Sasori was pleased with his position, even though he lacked the means to show it now.

Was it even worth it then?

Even though he loathed it, Sasori's alteration revealed more of himself to Deidara than he would have ever discovered otherwise. His partner was, almost figuratively, a locked case, and when one probed inside, an assortment of weapons and poisons were ready to send you to an earlier grave.

Sasori believed he was untouchable, but Deidara, with only his right eye alone, could see more than the puppet had probably ever wanted.

He could see that Sasori was scared. Under the emotionless mask that had permanently sealed his soul, Deidara knew that Sasori's young appearance was more than a shell. It reflected his spirit, who he really was underneath that label of age.

Sasori had never really grown up.

He needed to control everything, mold everything to his liking, and force everything to his terms. Sasori was a child who couldn't face the idea of death and loss; a boy who couldn't stand parting with whatever he held dear. So he made himself unchanging, so he would never die. He made people into puppets, so he could have and control them without time stealing his toys away. That's probably why he detested Deidara and his art so.

He couldn't control them, neither one.

Deidara has been stricken by Hiruko's tail more times then he can count, and harmless inklings of poisons had drifted through his veins enough to give an average person nightmares. However, Deidara would only leap away when that deadly weapon jerked his way, or dodge when purple liquid shot for his bloodstream. The blonde would just laugh, or smirk, or grin in that maniac way that secretly unnerved Sasori.

He laughed because he knew he would win.

Nothing could last forever, nothing. Not the earth, nor the Akatsuki, and not even his precious Sasori no Danna. Everything was fleeting; life was only a brief second before it disappeared. Deidara knew that one day someone more powerful, or just a little smarter, perhaps even himself if he was lucky, would take down Sasori and show him what eternity really was.

Death.

Sasori would not listen to Deidara, though. Mentions of his own impossible demise? He wouldn't hear of such foolishness. To him, Deidara was a nuisance, a brat that couldn't understand the concept of real beauty and so wasn't worth any effort. He was a temporary partner, one out of many he expected to have, and not any more special than the rest.

Sasori treated Deidara cruelly, shooting him and any of his ideas down heartlessly, causing him pain whenever he could. There were times he might have even killed him, if it were not for the threat of punishment that loomed over his head. He caused as much suffering as he could, never ceasing. Sasori only grew angrier with each blow he inflicted, because no matter how hard he tried, he could never wipe that grin from Deidara's face. He could never dull the fire in those blue eyes, stifle the passion that lit up his partner from the inside. So he kept trying, clenching his teeth in anger when all his attacks received where insane, mocking laughs from his partner, chuckles that teased him.

Deidara felt the animosity between his partner and himself, and the disgust he felt towards the other one's medium was as intense as his explosions. Eternity, living forever; these were things he couldn't comprehend, wouldn't agree with. Sasori was living in his delusions; he had even crafted a shell from them. Deidara wanted nothing more than to despise him, hate that living monstrosity that called itself art. Many a time he had been tempted to accidentally leave a few sculptures around to unknowingly set off a the right time. He had even done so a few times, but the gall to form those hand signs never came to him.

He pitied Sasori, in a way. Lost in a limbo of his own creation, built on false beliefs and empty philosophies. Every day he watched the doll child with maroon hair, noticing how inhuman he truly was. Sasori never cried, or even cast on the sad look; he didn't even bother to imitate it. He didn't grin humanly, only the sick smile of a killer that sometimes cracked open his features as he forced another corpse into his growing collection.

Sasori was only a shell, an empty, emotionless void.

Strangely enough, he was fascinated.

A gross mutation of life, a defiant laugh in the face of his art; that's the place Sasori owned in the explosive expert's heart. Yet, he would sometimes catch himself watching the tiny figure, when rarely out of Hiruko, hutched over and mixing poison after poison, desperately trying to fill his life with some meaning. Deidara noticed that sometimes, rarely, his self-confident, cocky smiles that he flashed his partner were only sad shadows of their alter egos.

Perhaps it was because, underneath all the arguments and cruel words, all he wanted was for Sasori to understand. Deidara wanted Sasori to comprehend real, true art. Wasting his life in so pathetic a form, he wanted his partner to change.

Deidara wanted Sasori to see him.

He didn't want to be just a tic on the board for Sasori, one partner out of hundreds that he surpassed with his superior tactics. Deidara yearned for some sort of appreciation, making his explosions grander to only his own delight. He was only human after all, S-ranked ninja or not. It wasn't too much to ask for his partner, of all people, or creatures, to treat him like a person.

Most of all, he was afraid of being a toy for Sasori. He was apprehensive that underneath all his well thought up arguments and retorts, it was only Sasori controlling what flew out of his mouth with the speeds of his well-crafted creations. Sometimes, Sasori's eyes would seem to glitter during one of their discussions, as if he were laughing at some private joke. He'd cut Deidara off mid-speech with a counter, those horrible irises only glowing more at his partner's responses.

Like he knew what he was going to say.

As if he had decided it.

It drove Deidara half-mad with internal horror, not that he ever denied being so in the first place. The feeling crawled under his skin like tiny insects, unavoidable. Sometimes he was tempted to be engulfed by his own masterpiece early, finding his hand halfway towards his chest. But he couldn't go yet, not with his revenge incomplete. He could only live with the fear, the mild insanity, his lopsided grins becoming more prominent and concealing as time passed.

Once, Sasori had lost his temper enough to discard Leader's warnings of retribution aside, full-intent as he was to see that bright face meet the his favorite weapon's tail. He had twitched his fingers angrily, shooting the sharpened blade at Deidara without regret, watching in grim pleasure as it neared the target. A scowl quickly flashed across his impassive features as the boy dodged nimbly, signaling a crash and an onslaught of dust around the pair.

When the clouds settled, Sasori's furious eyes glared at Deidara's jeering ones, spitting contemptuously and with accusation, "You just prove my point, brat. You don't want to die. Art is eternal." The short figure then stalked away, pleased with having the situation twisted to his own liking.

Deidara only watched, just smiling with such malice that it dripped from his lips and sizzled on the ground like the acid in his partner's concoctions.

"Just not by you Sasori-Danna, un," he hissed in a whisper, not caring if he was heard as he set off to follow his partner at a brisk place.

Deidara wanted to die, yes that was true. He had his death planned out in detail, and he looked forward to it passionately. His death would be astonishing, amazing, and mind-blowing. It would be a legend that only those who witnessed it could ever appreciate, and even then they would long for it after he faded into nothing. Deidara's death was going to be a blast, and he refused to die at anyone's hands but his own, especially Sasori's.

Death by the puppet master wasn't death; it was lifetimes trapped in wooden cages, tossed around by invisible strings for the controller's own amusement. Deidara had witnessed Sasori disemboweling and transforming his victims many a time, and he could always see himself in the shadows of their empty eyes. It sent terrible shivers down his spine, and inescapable nightmares while he slept. The thought of being incased in one of the many scrolls hidden on Sasori's person drove him a little bit more off the edge every time.

Sasori was his master in façade only, never in fact. Deidara refused to even think about the possibility.

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Art (n). – A bang

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Thank you for reading. Sorry it ended so bluntly but my head started to hurt : ). I also apologize if I spelt anything wrong (general spelling mistakes as well), put anyone out of character, or anything of the sort. I know it is not very good, and does not make much sense really, but please review. Thanks again.


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